


Rampaging Riddle

by Sk8er_Chica



Category: Young Guns (Movies)
Genre: Eventual Romance, F/M, Gen, Retelling, Revenge, Western, What-If
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-02-17
Updated: 2019-03-10
Packaged: 2019-10-30 14:58:39
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 3
Words: 7,056
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17830760
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Sk8er_Chica/pseuds/Sk8er_Chica
Summary: Serena Riddle, a young woman on the frontier with nowhere to go, is taken in by John Tunstall. He becomes a surrogate father to her. When John is killed by his business rival Lawrence Murphy, Serena saddles up with the Lincoln County Regulators to seek vengeance.





	1. Warm Springs, Tunstall, & Murphy

I, Serena Riddle, am setting this pen to paper to defend myself against assertions made by various dime novelists. They claim I’m a savage of dubious parentage whose lust for blood is matched only by my lust for men; that is most certainly not true. I was born on March 7th, 1859, the daughter of a white woman and an Apache medicine man. My birth name, Ayasha, which means “little one”, is arguably even more exotic than the moniker I adopted later in life. I have no recollections of my mother whatsoever, as my father raised me by himself.

I became both daughter and son to him. The village women taught me to sew and cook. I learned tribal medicine by watching my father care for the sick, the injured, and the dying. Father showed me how to hunt, and most importantly, how to defend myself. After much pleading, Father taught me what English he had learned from my mother. I pieced together that they had fallen in love when Mother came to the reservation with a group of people who wanted to “civilize” the Apaches using Christianity. What happened to her after that remains a mystery.

About a month after I turned fifteen, Father called me into our wikiup. He looked troubled, shifting about as he filled a medicine bag.

“What is it?” I asked, alarmed.

“Comanche,” was Father’s answer. “They are coming here. I have seen it. They have done what they pleased with our women before. You, Ayasha, are a woman now. I am afraid for you. You must leave the Warm Springs.”

The reservation was the only home I’d ever known. Living elsewhere was unthinkable.

My voice was small and childlike as I asked, “Father, what will I do? Where will I go?”

“You will be able to make a good life for yourself,” said Father, his voice breaking. “You can walk into their world as a white woman.”

I had inherited blue eyes from my mother, and my skin was fairer than the rest of the tribe. Father’s theory was sound, except for my tribal attire, which would give me away instantly.

“I can’t leave,” I said, my own voice cracking. “What about you, Father? And the women who raised me?”

“We will be all right,” Father said. Looking at me for the first time since the conversation had begun, he added, “Please, Ayasha, do not make me beg. You will go someplace safe. And you will leave tonight.”

“Yes, Father,” I managed to say, knowing better than to argue with an elder.

I didn’t know if I would ever see my friends and family again, so it was with a heavy heart that I mounted the blue roan stallion Father had tamed for me. There were tears in Father’s eyes as he handed me his hunting knife and a medicine pouch. I squeezed Father’s hand tightly, not wanting to let go.

“May the Great Spirit protect you,” Father sobbed as I nudged Storm Cloud’s sides with my heels and the two of us galloped away.

Half-blinded by tears, I zigged, zagged, and doubled back on myself all over the trails near the reservation. The last thing I wanted was to lead the attackers to my family at Warm Springs. I rode until past dark, trying to find the safest possible place to camp. I hoped to find somewhere with plenty of brush, but I wasn’t that lucky. Storm Cloud, sensing my uneasiness, kept vigil over me as I slept in the open prairie.

I soon arrived in a little town called Lincoln. I was at a complete loss for what to do next. I had no money, nothing except my horse, my knife, my medicine pouch, and the clothes on my back. I had never felt so alone and frightened in my life; I must’ve looked it too, because a concerned looking man approached me.

“Oh, there, there, my dear girl,” he said with a lilting accent that I would come to know as Irish. “Whatever’s been done to ya, it’s all over now. You’re safe.”

It was apparent he thought I had been kidnapped by the Apaches and was overwhelmed with relief to be back in civilization. He told me his name was Lawrence Murphy. He took me into the nearby saloon and introduced me to a woman he called Raven. She was wearing the lowest cut dress I had ever seen in my life. He told her to clean me up and put me in some respectable clothes. Raven led me up the stairs and prepared a tub of hot water. Once I had washed, she dressed me in lacy underthings and began the painful process of combing the knots out of my hair.

Raven put a second undergarment on me; when it was tightened, I could barely breathe. It also had the effect of thrusting my small bosoms upward and making them appear much larger. I was given a dress similar to hers. I felt uncomfortable with my body so exposed, but perhaps this was just the way white women dressed. She painted my lips with something red, then took me back to Murphy, who was sitting at the bar. He walked around me in slow circles, eyeing me up and down.

“Excellent, Raven,” he said at last. “She’ll do quite nicely. What’s your name, lass?”

“Ayasha,” I said.

“I see.” Murphy drew out the last word. “And what is your last name?”

I didn’t know what a last name was and blinked in confusion.

“Well, from now on, we’ll be callin’ ye….let me see….Serena Riddle.”

Murphy walked me behind the bar and showed me where the bottles of whiskey and glasses were, promising I could stay at the saloon as long as I liked if I would work for him. And so I became a barmaid. Although it physically hurt to live the lie that the Apaches had harmed me, I knew I would likely be put out the door in less than a minute if Murphy knew I was half-Indian.

Musicians occasionally came to Murphy’s Saloon, bringing with them sad Irish ballads and lively bawdy house tunes. I didn’t fully understand some of the songs, but it was a comfort. Music had been a large part of my life at Warm Springs. I worked at learning the words, singing them to myself as I performed my barmaid duties. Apparently, I had a good voice, because I was promoted to performing a few evenings a week with a drunken pianist as my only accompaniment. I didn’t know very many songs, but customers poured in from miles around to see Ravishing Riddle, as I was billed, perform. Not only did I make very good money, my promotion also provided me with a wardrobe of fine dresses and a luxury boudoir upstairs.

Sleep was nearly impossible, however. The noise of men breaking bottles and shouting at each other echoed up through the floorboards. Down the hall, I could hear drunken laughter, grunts, and screams. About once a week, slaps or punches joined the din. I had no idea what the other girls were getting up to in their rooms, but I knew I wanted no part of it. I noticed they seemed to resent my presence and wasn’t sure why. Murphy occasionally leered at me or touched my shoulder for longer than I would’ve liked. When I finally told him to get off me, he threatened to slap me senseless. I knew something wasn’t right, but I stayed. As I’ve said, I had nowhere else to go.

Months later, I was down in the saloon greeting patrons after a performance. I was approached by an older, well-groomed man who introduced himself as John Tunstall. We were exchanging other pleasantries when Murphy appeared.

He put a hand on my shoulder, leaned close, and whispered in my ear. “Take the gentleman upstairs and give him whatever he wants.”

As we mounted the steps, Raven mimed taking her clothes off at me. I was horrified. Once we were in my room, I backed myself against the dresser and surreptitiously took my hunting knife out of a drawer. I held it ready at my side.

“Come now, dear, there’s no need for all of that,” said John, his accent different than Murphy's, his tone gentle. “I assure you I have no wish to harm you. I would, however, like to make you an offer, Miss…Riddle, is it? I own a beef outfit just outside of town, and I could use some assistance running the place.”

At first, I thought that was an odd thing to say. Why come to a saloon girl when there was a room downstairs full of young, able-bodied men?

“An innocent young girl like you has no business being in a place like this, Miss Riddle,” John went on. “Mr. Murphy has no right to force you into allowing strange men to do indecent things to you. If you’ll come with me, I can offer you safety and freedom. All I will ever ask of you is that you cook and help me manage my farm.”

My head was spinning from finding out exactly what had been going on all those months right under my nose. How had I missed it? I thought for a fleeting second about going downstairs and plunging my knife into Murphy's chest.

“I can’t stay here another minute,” I said, taking my medicine pouch out of a different drawer.

“Is there a way we can go out and not be seen?” John asked.

I nodded. There was a back stairwell, and it was highly unlikely anyone would be using it. John asked if I had any other property to collect. I told him that my horse was outside. Someone in the heavens must have been looking out for me, because John and I managed to get to his wagon without anyone noticing us. I’ll be forever grateful to John for rescuing me.

“Do you have any particular skills, other than your lovely voice?” John asked pleasantly once we were outside.

Blushing at the compliment, I said, “I’m good with horses. I can ride and I’ve broken a couple. I can cook well enough, haven’t made anyone sick yet. I know a bit about medicine.”

“You're quite the well-rounded young lady, Miss Riddle.” John said with a smile.

I swung myself onto Storm Cloud and followed John to his ranch outside of town. John carried my belongings into the simple whitewashed adobe house and led me to a back bedroom. White linen curtains were open to admit sunlight, which danced over the highly polished oak dresser, nightstand, and writing desk. The feather bed also had an oak frame and was covered with a colorful patchwork quilt.

“This cozy little space will be your room, Miss Riddle,” John said. “I hope you find it to your liking.” He set my things on the bed and added before leaving, “If there is anything at all you need, please don’t hesitate to ask me.”

After I put away my few possessions, I explored the ranch property until John called me in for dinner. Most men are terrible cooks if left to manage on their own, but John Tunstall was the exception to that rule. After supper, John handed me a copy of the local newspaper, _The Independent_. I picked it up, unsure of what to do with it. John seemed to understand the problem. He promised that, beginning tomorrow, he would start teaching me to read and write. We would also go shopping so I could have “some respectable clothes.”

True to his word, John bought me a wardrobe of much more modest dresses the next morning. When we got home, I discovered some men’s clothing in the closet in my room and, out of curiosity, tried that on also. They fit, so the man they belonged to must have been quite small. I found the trousers quite comfortable.

I knew Storm needed exercise, as he hadn’t been on a decent run for quite some time. Still wearing the men's clothes, I went to ask John if I could accompany one of the ranch hands on the cattle drive. John was a bit reluctant but relented, saying there was a spare saddle in the barn I could use. Lifting the thing was a chore; Storm Cloud shied from it, then reared onto his hind legs when I cinched the girth around his belly. It took nearly an hour to get the saddle completely on him. I’d only ever ridden horses bareback, so all the bouncing around when I trotted and cantered left me aching. Clearly, Storm and I both had a lot to get used to.

John, being short of help, agreed to let me work half a day in the house and half a day with the horses and cattle. He admired my tenacity and strength. After supper each night, he gave me lessons in reading, writing, and basic arithmetic. (The last one required incredible patience on his part, as I had little aptitude for it). John also grew to love me like I was his own daughter; I learned John had never married and had no children. Eventually, we dropped “Miss Riddle” and “Mr. Tunstall”, and began using each other’s first names. I liked John a great deal, but he was no replacement for my own father. I missed him terribly and constantly wondered if he was even alive.  

Later in the year, a young man named Richard “Dick” Brewer stopped by the ranch. He was just passing through, he said, and wondered if we'd be kind enough to give him something to eat so he could keep going on his way. He’d moved out west from Vermont and was looking for work. John, in his charmingly persuasive manner, convinced him to stay.

Some time after, Josiah Scurlock, who preferred to be called Doc (as would I if my first name were Josiah), joined us for supper, his story similar to Richard’s. Our number soon expanded to include a brawler named Charlie Bowdre (“pugilist,” John called him) and a bank robber and petty thief named Steve Stephens (also known as Dirty Steve).

This is when John Tunstall’s reputation as a philanthropist began; he never turned down anyone who needed a job or a place to stay for the night, no matter how wrong the fellow seemed to have gone.

 


	2. Jose Chavez y Chavez

Through it all, I prided myself on remaining objective, never developing anything resembling romantic feelings towards any of the men John took in. That changed on January 6th, 1876. I was doing mundane household chores when John came home from town, bringing with him a dark-skinned boy about my age. He had a colorful blanket wrapped around himself. Tangled black hair flowed almost to his shoulders, an eagle feather tied in it. My respect for John doubled; not many people would take in Indians.

“I met this fine young man in town this morning,” John said pleasantly. “As we’re short of help to take the cattle to winter grazing, I’ve offered him work.”

I felt a tug on my heartstrings as I looked closer at the boy. He was shivering violently, and he was much too thin. I guided him into the parlor. As I helped him sit on the sofa, his fingertips brushed against mine.

“His hands are like ice,” I told John. “How long has he been outside in this weather?”

“I’m not certain, Serena, m’dear.” He replied. “I believe his name is Jose. The poor boy looks to be quite ill.”

I leaned down to inspect Jose more closely. John was right; Jose’s brown eyes were sunken and dull with deep shadows beneath them. His clothes were hanging off his frame, his bare feet frostbitten. There was pallor to his dark skin, but no sores, infected cuts, or other readily visible signs of disease.

“How did he get like this?” I asked.

Jose’s face crumpled. John took me aside and explained the boy's story as best he understood it, because Jose’s English was very poor. Jose was Navajo; Murphy and Company had purposely sent rotten meat to the reservation. The boy had rounded up a few friends to trade in town for food, but the townspeople killed his friends. When he returned home, he found his entire family murdered in the snow. I was shaking with suppressed rage by the time John finished. 

 “Is there anything you can do for him?” asked John.

“I have a feeling he’d be more comfortable lying down, but I’m afraid the bunkhouse is too cold. He can sleep by the fire.”

John nodded. “I’ll ask the boys to chop some extra wood. You know the most about medicine, so he will be in your charge. Take care of him, please.”

“I will,” I promised.

“If you’ll excuse me, I must go straighten up some papers in my study,” said John. “The boys are outside if you need someone to ride to town to fetch a doctor for young Master Jose.”

I went to the closet where we kept a small pile of bedding for the bunkhouse. I picked up a spare pillow and a blanket. I placed the pillow on the end of the sofa closest to the fire and helped Jose lie down. I could hear his teeth chattering.

“My name is Serena, Jose. It’s all right. I want to help you. I’ve got another blanket for you,” I said, even though I wasn’t sure how much would be understood. I covered him. “Just lie here and get some rest.”

The whole time I was reassuring him, Jose kept muttering something under his breath, but his voice was so weak I couldn't make out what it was. His eyes had taken on a wild, almost feverish glaze. I did the best I could to calm him, stroking his forehead and gently patting his shoulder through the blankets. His breathing soon evened, and I knew he was asleep.

I went into the kitchen to prepare supper. The main course, a pheasant Doc had killed that morning, had already been put on a spit to roast over the parlor fire. As I kneaded a loaf of bread into shape, I watched the boys through the window. Doc was chopping firewood, Charley and Steve were stacking it, and Dick was supervising the other three. I put the bread in the oven to bake, then mashed a bowl of potatoes and set the table. I decided to also make a batch of apple dumplings; the boys could use a treat after working in the cold all day. The smells of baking bread and cooking pheasant steadily grew stronger.

Suddenly, a loud cry of pain echoed from the parlor. The noise startled me so much that the knife I was using to chop apples slipped from my grasp, very nearly slicing my hand open. I abandoned my cooking, and hurried into the parlor. I put out a hand to steady Jose, as he was in danger of falling off the sofa. He was writhing with both arms wrapped tightly around his stomach. Between gasps, Jose was talking very rapidly. He wasn’t speaking English or Apache, so I assumed it was Navajo.

As quickly as the fit had started, it ended, though there was still a frenzied look in Jose's eyes. His breaths were quick and shallow. From out of nowhere, Jose's stomach gave a huge rumble that left no doubt in my mind that it was completely empty. Jose groaned softly. I winced sympathetically. I knew from my own childhood at Warm Springs how it felt to be that hungry; it was like having a mountain lion claw your belly from the inside.  

John was standing beside me, having come out of his study when he heard the commotion. “Is Master Jose all right?”

“No.”

“Have you been able to determine why the poor boy is so ill?”

“Yes,” I replied, brushing a stray bit of hair out of my face. “I’m fairly certain it’s starvation.”

“Oh dear. Can you tell how long it’s been since the boy’s last meal?”

I shook my head. “Not for sure, unless, of course, he can tell me.”

“Do you think he can recover?”

“Well, he’s weak, very weak. The sooner we get something in his stomach, the better.”

I turned back toward the sofa, and I found myself looking into his startlingly brown eyes.

"Wh...wh..." Jose said, clearly having some trouble with English. He sucked in a deep breath and asked, " _Quien es?_ "

I could understand some Spanish, thanks to Mexican customers that came to Murphy’s, but I could barely speak a lick of it.

I answered, “Serena,” hoping against hope it might be at least somewhat close to the correct response to what he was asking.

He nodded. "Wh...where...this place?"

"You’re on a farm just outside of Lincoln," I said. "Don't worry, Jose. You're safe now."

"Master Jose, you are more than welcome to stay here as long as you wish," said John cordially. "Miss Serena will have you back on your feet in no time."

Jose nodded again. John, figuring the crisis had passed, went back to his study. Nothing I was preparing for dinner was even close to being ready, so I went into the kitchen and heated some milk over the stove. It was really the best thing for him at the moment, anyway. Milk would quiet his stomach, warm him up from the inside, and hopefully help him sleep. I returned to the parlor, glass in hand. I crouched next to the sofa, smiling kindly at Jose.

"Do you like warm milk?" I asked. "It's fresh."

From the expression on Jose's face, he was clearly caught in a painful battle between his crippling hunger and his innate suspicion of anything offered to him. His stomach seemed to have won out, since the next thing he did was struggle to push himself into a sitting position. I had to catch his elbow when he nearly fainted.

I carefully wrapped his fingers around the glass. "Here. Drink this."

His gaze bore into me as he gingerly raised the glass to his nose and sniffed it. He took a sip. His eyes softened as he realized he hadn’t smelled or tasted anything other than milk. He drained the glass in several quick gulps. He thanked me using Indian sign language as he handed the empty glass back to me. I understood him perfectly that time, because all tribes used the same hand motions. He asked for more, and I obliged.

Soon after his second glass of milk, Jose fell into another dozy state. I had just gone back into the kitchen to set the table when I heard the front door open and a bundle of firewood hitting the floor. Jose woke with a start, producing a large hunting knife from under the blankets. The boys trooped into the house, shaking snow off their coats and boots, all of them pink-faced from the cold.

“Smells like Miss Serena’s makin’ us a real feast,” Dick complimented. He spotted Jose and eyed him with distaste. “What’s that breed doin’ here?”

“He ain’t a breed. He’s a greaser,” argued Charley.

“He could be a greaser _and_ a breed,” Doc reasoned.

“I hate greasers.” grumbled Steve. “And I hate breeds worse.”

 “Shut your mouth, Steve,” I snapped. He, like the rest of the boys, knew damn well my father was Apache.

I opened the oven door to check on the bread. It was golden-brown, so I pulled it out to cool. I went to the fireplace to inspect the pheasant; it still needed to cook a little while. I rolled up the last few apple dumplings and put them in a pot to boil.

Dick remained suspicious. “What’s wrong with him? He looks sick.”

“An’ it’s prob’ly catchin’ too,” Steve added darkly.

“It’s not,” I assured the boys. “John found Jose wandering around town earlier today.” I decided to spare the details about what had happened at the reservation. “He didn’t have a place to stay and was about frozen. John couldn’t leave him.”

“ _I_ could’ve,” said Steve.

The scent of apples dusted with cinnamon began to drift in from the kitchen.

“Serena,” Jose said, clutching his stomach.

He dragged the side of one hand back and forth across it, as though he were trying to saw himself in half. I recognized the sign language.

“I know it hurts,” I said soothingly. “I’ll be right back.”

The bread in the kitchen was cool, so I took out my hunting knife and cut a small piece off the end of the loaf. The boys watched curiously as I approached the sofa with the crust.

“Why the hell does that greaser get to eat ‘fore the rest of us?” Steve exploded.

I was losing my patience. “Steven, he’s half-starved.” I pressed the piece of bread into Jose’s hand, signing for him to eat. “It’s getting near to suppertime. Would you like to join us at the table?”

Jose shook his head.

“Are you sure?” I inquired. “You just said you’re hungry.”

“No make eat bad meat,” Jose said firmly.

Steve let out his irritating donkey-like laugh.

“Just laugh it up, jackass,” I muttered angrily under my breath.

“Did you just call me a jackass?” Steve snapped.

When I didn't answer, he got so close to my face that I could smell the tobacco he was chewing.

He grabbed my upper arm and repeated himself: “Did you call me a jackass!”

“Take your hand off me,” I said in a warning voice.

“My mama’s the only one can call me a jackass!”

“Nice family,” I said coolly. “I’ll ask you again: Let go of me.”

Steve refused. Before I could take a swing at him, Jose punched Steve in the jaw, sending him sprawling on the sofa. His brown eyes were blazing with fury.

“Leave lady alone, _pendejo_ ,” he said.

“What the hell did you call me!” spat Steve.

John appeared in the living room.

“Dear me, what seems to be the matter?” His voice was deadly calm.

“Serena called me a jackass, Mr. Tunstall,” whined Steve.

“Serena, we've been over this before,” John said lightly. “A gentlewoman should never stain her lips with cursing.”

Jose’s legs buckled slightly; protecting me from Steve had probably taken what little energy he had left. John assisted him back to a chair while I checked the pheasant again. It was finally done. I got Charley and Dick to put it on the serving platter while I took the dumplings off the heat.

“It’s time for supper,” I told Jose.

Doc helped me steady him and together we walked Jose to the table. I used a damp rag to clean off his hands. John joined us and reminded the rest of the boys to wash up. Once they had, Dick skipped the saying of grace for the first time in living memory and asked me to pass the potatoes. John carved the pheasant. I helped Jose pile up his plate.

Dinner was an unusually quiet affair. Jose didn’t have much in the way of table manners, but neither did I when I first came off the reservation. He signed “thank you” and “bless you” to John and I over and over again.

After supper, Steve was given the job of washing all the dirty dishes. The rest of us sat in the parlor by the fire. Steve later joined us for our reading lesson. Jose fell asleep on the sofa during it. John decided not to disturb him; he needed rest. The boys went to the bunkhouse, and John left to smoke a pipe in his study. Before I went upstairs to my own room, I couldn’t stop myself from tenderly running my fingers through Jose’s hair.

Jose spent much of the next few weeks with me. I allowed him to eat and sleep as much as he wanted, and he steadily regained his strength. It then became my responsibility to teach him to speak better English so that he could participate in the nightly newspaper readings. His first clear request was to ask to be called by his surname, Chavez. While Chavez struggled to master his lessons, the two of us communicated using a bastard mix of English, sign language, and the Spanish I learned from him. We became very close during that time. 

Even once he no longer needed tutoring, Chavez remained my constant companion. I was one of the few people with whom he was really comfortable. In return, Chavez was always there when I needed help or just someone to talk to; he also saw it as his job to protect me, just as he had done the night we met. The feeling that comes from having a truly outstanding friend my own age was new to me, but I liked it.


	3. William H. Bonney

_December 28th, 1877_

I stood in the kitchen, rolling out a pie crust for supper. I was just about to fill it with blueberries I had canned during the summer when I heard angry voices through the wall. This was hardly anything new; sooner or later, Dirty Steve would get bored with insulting Chavez and find some other way to amuse himself. I decided to try to break up the fight when I saw Chavez's knife come out.

"Come on, greaser, cut me there!" Dirty Steve challenged.

"Just leave him alone," I said exasperatedly, addressing both of them.

"Well, ain't that somethin'?" sneered Dirty Steve. "Chay-vez is gettin' protected by the half-breed squaw."

Chavez, angry that I had been insulted, pushed me behind him and wildly slashed at Dirty Steve.

“Cut me, damn Mexican! Cut me, damn Mexican!” Dirty Steve taunted.

"Hey, hey! Knock it off!" Dick commanded, riding up out of nowhere. He planted his horse squarely between Chavez and Dirty Steve. “You know better, Chavez!”

Dirty Steve also knew better, but I felt it best not to point that out.

"Navajo! Navajo!" Dirty Steve crowed.

"That's enough!" Dick said firmly.

There was a tense moment before Chavez and Dirty Steve settled down, though Chavez still held onto his knife.

"Hey, 'Rena, you got any of those bad-smelling leaves?" asked Dick, motioning to a fresh gash on his cheek.

Blood had already run down his face and stained the collar of his shirt; I would have a hell of a time getting that out later. I went into the house to retrieve the needed herb from my medicine pouch. Dick held the leaf against the cut, swearing under his breath a couple of times. The sudden clatter of wagon wheels on the road made all three of our heads snap around.

“John’s back,” Dick announced unnecessarily.

Our employer and Doc were approaching the ranch in the buggy, home from town. A small young man I didn't recognize was riding in the back of the wagon.

Turning to Chavez and Steve, Dick said, "Wash it up and get into your supper clothes."

Neither of them moved.

"Now!" he barked. "Both of you!"

Chavez reluctantly sheathed his knife and walked toward the well. I returned to the house to finish cooking. I hoped there would be enough supper now that I was cooking for eight instead of the usual seven. I had barely shut the back door when I heard it open again. My visitor was John’s latest charity case. He wasn’t much taller than me, had golden hair that went halfway to his shoulders, an impish face, and dancing blue-gray eyes. John was at his shoulder.

"May I help you?" I asked politely.

“Please show Master William where the hog feed is,” John requested.

Before I could, the new boy indicated me and said, "Mr. Tunstall, I surely hope this fella can cook. I'm powerful hungry."

He rubbed his skinny belly for emphasis.

" _I_ am a _woman,_ " I informed him coldly.

The kid grinned. "Apologies. I just never seen a woman wearin' trousers before." He turned to John. "May I make the acquaintance of the young dewdrop?"

"Of course you may," said John, missing or choosing to ignore the sarcasm.

"I'm William H. Bonney, ma'am," said the boy, making a grand gesture of kissing the back of my flour-covered hand. "Call me Billy."

"Serena Riddle," I said.

I handed the boy a large wooden bucket, which we kept next to the back door and filled every day with a mixture of dry corn and table scraps. Billy tipped his hat, thanked me, and walked out to the backyard. I watched Billy climb into the pig pen, only to have the hog knock him off his feet. He didn’t seem injured, so I returned my attention to the pie. A short while later, Billy reappeared, covered in dirt, at the open kitchen window. He stuck his head through it.

"It sure smells good in here," he said, almost wistfully. "Do you need any help? I used to work the chow line at Pete Maxwell's place."

I put the pie in the oven.

"Do you know how to set a table?" I wanted to know.

"Mm-hmm. Yes, ma'am."

"Do that while I carve the roast beef. Dishes are in here." I tapped the appropriate cabinet with the point of my kitchen knife. "Silverware is in one of these drawers."

I really couldn't be more specific than that because Doc had washed the dishes the previous night. Doc’s head was always in the clouds, so things never got put away in the proper place.

“Serena,” Billy said, as if he were testing the sound of it. He smiled. “I like that name. It’s pretty.”

“Thank you.”

Billy cocked his head to the side and added, “You sure are a cute little filly. Are you Mr. Tunstall’s daughter?”

“No,” I replied. “I’ve just lived and worked here for the last three years.”

"I see. So you're the maid?"

"Not exactly. John took me in, adopted me, you could say. Like the other boys." I explained, gesturing to the yard.

Billy got plates out of the cabinet and found the silverware with more ease than I thought he would. I didn’t watch to see if he was setting the table correctly; if he hadn’t, John would see it as an opportunity to teach him. When Billy asked, I told him where to find glasses and napkins.

“I’m done, ma’am,” he said a few minutes later.

I had run out of chores for Billy to do and didn’t want him attempting to get into the cooking pots, so I said, “Thank you very much, Billy. You can go ahead and ask Dick if he has anything that he needs help with. I’ll call when it’s time to eat.” 

It was well after dark before I bellowed out the back door, "Supper's ready!"

This statement was immediately followed by the general racket of the boys stampeding into the house. Dick, as usual, was the leader of the pack; Billy brought up the rear. He had swapped his dusty black shirt for a gray undershirt. John raised an eyebrow at his attire, but didn't say anything about it. Billy probably didn't have anything else to wear, and John wouldn't want to make him feel out of place. John took his seat at the head of the table and I sat at the opposite end. The boys dropped into their usual chairs, Billy in an extra one I had squeezed next to Doc's.

"Now that we're all here," said John, "Richard, if you would, please."

John crossed himself, the rest of us bowed our heads, then Dick began to say grace. Billy sat with his hands folded, but his head was up, and he was eyeing the spread in the center of the table. Doc nudged Billy hard in the ribs with his elbow. Billy didn't seem to notice. As usual, Dick didn't just say grace; he started into a recital of all the prayers he knew. And Dick knew a lot.

"For Christ's sake," Billy groaned, pressing one hand into his stomach.

Dick glared at him. "Listen, you little rodent--" (He was so upset he probably wanted to call him something worse, but he couldn't because John was around). "Don't you _ever_ take the Lord's name in vain while I'm sittin' here."

"Richard!" John's tone carried warning. "That will be quite enough." He turned to Billy. "Master William, I hope you're not judging our household too rashly; it's not always like this. Isn't that correct, Miss Riddle?"

"Absolutely."

I mentally added, ' _Sometimes it's worse.'_

John fixed his gaze upon Dick. "Master Richard, I would appreciate it if you could be a bit more understanding. I think it has been quite a long time since Master William has had a decent meal, so it's only natural for him to be a bit anxious now that he's at our table. Please apologize for being so short with him. In turn, William will apologize to you for taking the Lord’s name in vain."

“I will not!” Billy cried.

“Very well. Then you shall continue to go hungry.” John’s tone was not harsh, but you could tell he would make good on his word.

“Sorry,” Billy mumbled unconvincingly.

“Sorry,” Dick answered, just as insincerely.

"And what is it that you are sorry about?" John prompted.

They each gave a reason, talking over each other.

"You see? That wasn't so difficult, was it?" asked John.

Neither man answered.

“Tuck in, everyone," John said. "I think the roast beef is getting cold."

Billy piled up his plate before any of us had a chance to blink. A little further down the table, Steve and Charley had a furious but silent squabble over the plate of bread.

“Well, now,” said John lightly, “look at those appetites.”

My eyes immediately flicked to Billy, who was eating like he hadn’t tasted food since the Lincoln administration.

“William, I’m afraid that’s not proper table manners.”

Billy swallowed. “Sorry, Mr. Tunstall.”        

"What can you expect from Hog Boy?" piped up Dirty Steve, making a few hideous snorting noises.

Billy looked down at his now-empty plate.

“William, have some more.” John invited.

Billy helped himself to a couple of slices of roast beef and a scoop of mashed potatoes. “Thank you. Miss Serena, you’re quite a good cook.”

“Thank you.”

“You ever worked beef before, Billy?” asked Dick.

Billy told the boys what he’d told me about working at Pete Maxwell's ranch and bragged that he had a way with cattle.

“He’s got a way with hogs,” Charley snorted again.

“Congratulations, Charles. You and Steven will be doing the dirty crockery alone this evening,” John proclaimed.

“We was just hackin’ on you,” Dirty Steve explained to Billy through a mouthful of food.

“Rumor has it you killed a man, Billy,” said Dick. “You don’t seem like the killin’ sort.”

Billy’s reason for doing so was simple: “He was hackin’ on me.”

Dirty Steve and Charley exchanged a worried look at this; Billy just smirked.

After the dishes had been washed, we gathered around the parlor fireplace for our nightly newspaper reading. Out of all of us, Dirty Steve was the one on whom John's attempts at education had failed most miserably. He still couldn't even pronounce the word "succeed," for heaven's sake. Once Dirty Steve had stumbled his way through a paragraph, John called on Billy to read.

"Yeah, sure," Billy said with a roll of his eyes.

I wondered if maybe he was embarrassed because he couldn't read.

John must have suspected the same, as he said, "William, we're _all_ learning to read and write. Take up the journal and start where the other boy left off, or you can go straight back to your home on the streets."

I could almost see the gears turning underneath Billy's feathery blond hair. He had the unflattering nickname of Hog Boy, and we'd already fed him dinner, so what reason did he have to stay? I suppose he decided living with us was better than taking his chances wherever he had come from, because he unfolded the paper and started to read. It surprised me how practiced he sounded.

"Splendid reading, William." John smiled, patting Billy on the head.

I stood up to walk to my room, bidding good night to the boys.

The next morning, L.G. Murphy, Sheriff Brady, and his posse paid a visit to the ranch. Sheriff Brady accused John of plundering Murphy's merchandise wagon.

"That's a fargin' lie and you _know_ it!" said Dick angrily. "John would never steal from anyone."

"Look behind you, Earl," Murphy said to John. "All I see are hired thieves...and a loose woman."

I tried to remain composed, but Murphy had really touched a nerve with that comment.

“These boys are promising young men acquiring an education,” John replied with great dignity.

Murphy dismounted from his horse with a lecherous grin. “Well, I’ve had you pegged as the type that—that likes educatin’ young boys, Englishman.”

My hands curled into fists.

"Do you know how much money Sheriff Brady's invested in my store?" Murphy asked. He and John were bidding for the same beef contract. "His life savings. And I'm backed by the Chief Justice, the U.S. District Attorney, the Territorial District Attorney, and the Santa Fe Ring. It's a family thing, John. You don't come prancin' in here with your fat foreign capital tryin' to change it."

"I made a very long steamship journey here from London, so I shall be damned if I'm going to be dissuaded by something as ugly as political corruption," John replied calmly. "I'd like you to take your threats and your sheriff and get off my property."

"This is a new country. We won't bow down to Englishmen no more." said Murphy, mounting his horse. "Get ready for hell."

Murphy rode off, the sheriff and posse behind him. John watched them go, then told us to get back to work.

I silently worried as I returned to my chores. This trouble between John and Murphy had been building for some time. Not only was Murphy well-known for being vicious, physically and verbally, he was also well-connected. I could only pray for John's safety.


End file.
